Gravel Road
by lilabut
Summary: After the events of 2x03, Sybil takes a late night walk to the cottage for answers and an apology.


I am quite nervous about this. I was afraid I could not manage to write anything decent for this show. Well, I still gave it a try.

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_Gravel Road_

Sybil breathes in and out in a quick rhythm alongside the crunch and echo of her heels on the gravel path leading to the small cottage, a flickering and dark ocker-coloured light burning behind the dingy windows.

Her hearts beats restlessly inside her chest, constricted so tightly by the heavy dress, the strings of the corset preventing her breath from rushing out quickly enough to keep up with her pace.

The tips of her fingers toy gently with the smooth fabric of her gloves, an act of nervousness and unease she can not seem to let go off. Deep down in her mind she recalls memories of her mother chastely slapping her hands apart whenever she started fidgeting her gloves when they were in company. _Stop it, Sybil._

Back then, she had obeyed. But now, the movements of her fingers quicken with every step she takes. A chilly breeze upsets the leafs, the rustle of their shivering like music in the night.

Sybil feels more tense than after a long late shift at the hospital, when her every fiber aches with exhaustion and she has to scrub her hands raw to remove the blood of so many men they could not save.

Seeing Branson in the dining room today, in a footman's livery, carrying the soup for the family and their guests - for her - had filled her with such desperate sadness. When it was just the the two of them in the car, there was nothing between them but such little space and rules they knew should be obeyed. Rules she had allowed to slowly crumble, little piece by little piece, over all these years.

In the dining room, however, it had become clearer than ever before to Sybil what worlds stood between them. How many people would raise their voice only to say _no_.

Matthew's words had faded into darkness inside her head, her only response a friendly smile. A mask she knew so well, one she had perfected like every woman in her family and position. Shallow. Meaningless. Void of any honest emotion or care.

His presence had been so distracting, so wrong, so upsetting. Whatever had gone wrong - and she was so certain that _something_ had - she was grateful for. When Carson had led him out of the room, Anna hurrying behind them, Sybil had felt such a tidal wave of relief flood through her.

_Taken ill._ He had not looked it at all, at least from what she had been able to see from her peripheral vision. Then again, and only to add more fire to the sadness dwelling in her chest, the only thing she could ever really see of him without a roomful of people casting suspicious glances, was his back. Tense, straight, broad.

As she approaches the cottage her steps slow down to a less frantic pace. The door is open just wide enough for her to slip through in one fluid motion. Heat immediately flushes her cheeks as she steps into the small garage, much warmer and sheltered from the breeze outside.

"Branson?" she calls hesitantly into the dimly-lit garage, her fingertips still nervously playing with her glove.

She hears the rustling of paper, fabric moving against the rough concrete, and a bothered, tired sigh before Branson appears from behind the car, hands buried in his pockets.

"Are you quite alright, milady? It's rather cold outside tonight."

_Milady. _She hates the sound of it coming from his lips, such silly nonsense. Still, she knows it is a line she is not ready to cross, just like she does not dare to address him by his first name.

"I'd say it's chilly rather than cold. But I'm alright, thank you."

Silence falls between them, and Sybil knows she should not be here at this time of night, when so many mistakes and wrong choices are known to be made in the cover of darkness.

"Are _you_ alright?" she finally asks, her voice lower than she intended, too much a caring whisper than an appropriate question to ask the chauffeur. When nothing else about this was appropriate for anyone else. She notices him swallow heavily, his eyes drifting towards the concrete, and it all comes rushing back to her, how desperately she wants it all to be right. "Carson said you were ill. Are you?"

He chuckles, still avoiding to look at her directly.

"If being foolish is an illness, then yes, I'm very ill indeed."

His words confuse her, and Sybil takes a few cautious steps further into the garage, the click of her heels echoing between them like all the words she wants to say so desperately.

"What happened, then? Carson seemed quite upset."

"Nothing to bother you with, milady."

"Branson..." she does not know what it is she wants to say, so she lets her voice drift into silence as soon as his name passes her lips. But he looks up now, hope, anger and sadness mingling in his eyes like they do so often. "Do you not want to tell me because you are still angry at me for what I said about our actions in Ireland? Because I am very sorry."

That afternoon hovers like a dark gray cloud on a blue summer sky in her mind, frustration, guilt and regret over her choice of words. She had meant what she said about his anger, but it had never been directed at her so openly, despite all the years that have passed without an answer.

"It's not that, milady. It's not you who makes me angry, it's everything else. In fact, you are the only thing in this world that does not make me feel angry."

This time it is Sybil who drops her gaze downwards, the overwhelming sadness and frustration throbbing painfully in her heart.

"There's no need to worry, milady."

For a second she wants so badly to tell him to call her Sybil, but she knows she is not ready. She sighs, looking up only to meet his gaze, much softer now than before.

"I really am sorry." _For oh so many things._

He nods gently, holding her gaze with a slight smile.

"I suppose I should go back before Anna finds my room empty and sends out a search party," Sybil says without much enthusiasm, trying to think of more words to say.

"That's probably right."

"I just... wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Of course."

They both seem to know that the story does not end here. That there are truths lingering, motives being withheld. But for now, it is only a shy smile in the dim light of the garage, a careful nod and two whispered _good nights_, before Sybil slowly makes her way back through the chilly night, up the gravel path.


End file.
